


today, we escape.

by kittyklaus



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Pre-Canon, Substance Abuse, implied one-sided klaus/diego, mentions of childhood trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 17:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18145496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyklaus/pseuds/kittyklaus
Summary: First place gets gold, gold like the golden blonde of Luther’s perfectly groomed locks. Second get silver, silver like the glint of Diego’s sharpened knives. Third gets bronze, bronze like the beautiful tone of Allison’s always-soft skin.Fourth gets nothing,Klaus thinks.





	today, we escape.

**Author's Note:**

> hello...~ i haven't written anything in a while, so i'm a bit nervous about posting this! decided to break in this new account with a klaus character study, because how could i resist??
> 
> this fic takes place before anything happens in the show, in that sweet spot prior to sir reginald's death but after vanya's book has come out and luther's been sent to the moon and all that jazz. the whole thing is basically a rundown of klaus trying to make it through a particularly shitty day where he can't afford his next hit and he can't stop thinking about his family.
> 
>  **!!!** please be aware that this fic touches on klaus' issues with substance abuse. there's also a splash of suicidal thoughts, a dash of gender dysphoria, a spritz of childhood trauma, and a drizzle of feelings for diego that klaus refuses to deal with **!!!**
> 
> i hope y'all enjoy!

Pale morning light, the precursor to sunrise, soaks through the tiny squares of grime-slathered windows. There is no sound, no accompaniment for the aftermath of his all-nighter, only silence. Blissfully deafening silence.

He stares at himself in the glossy, grey slab of a mirror that clings to a quilt of tattered posters and graffiti. He splashes his face with water, lets droplets bead up in the smear of facial hair at his upper lip and chin. He yearns for a tub, wanting desperately to sink into the heated depths of an overdue bath, but he has nowhere to go. No place to call home, nothing of his own. No bed, no bathroom, and certainly no tub.

“What’s stopping you from going back?”

And just like that, the silence is broken.

_Ben._

Who better than brother dearest to come along and remind Klaus of everything he’s running from? His family and the undead, all wrapped up in one, like a big, traumatic burrito.

Ben looms behind him in the mirror, but when Klaus turns to confront him, no one’s there. Hysteria paints the frazzled edges of his laughter. He leans back against the sink with his elbow, letting his whole weight rest against the porcelain ledge.

“I’m not talking to you right now,” Klaus decides. “I am _officially_ declaring the next 48 hours a _bummer-free_ zone.”

“You could go visit Mom,” Ben continues, nothing more but a tickle in Klaus’ ear. “Talk to Pogo, see if he can help you get through-”

“And then what,” Klaus asks. “Run the risk of seeing Dad? Yeah, _oh_ -kay. Not a chance, Blinky.”

“You need help.”

 _“You_ need to find another medium,” Klaus spits. “And _I_ need to find another high.”

There’s a distinct emptiness around him, then, and Klaus can tell that his brother is gone — escaped to whatever ghost dimension he occupies when he isn’t busy floating around Klaus in the land of mortality, bothering him into temporary bouts of sobriety. It doesn’t matter that he pushed for this outcome, for Ben to leave; there is an equally distinct emptiness inside him that wishes Ben would have stayed.

*

The streets have done a complete turnaround come six o’clock. No longer are the creatures like Klaus out to play, with their makeup smeared and their clothing too tight. Now, every crosswalk and corner is occupied by the worker bees, young and old, with their ties and fitted clothes. They hustle, every single one of them, in one direction and Klaus bumbles along against the flood — a daring ruby in a diamond-crusted crown.

He digs into the pockets of the feather-collared jacket he wears like a second skin, hoping to find something, anything, to get him through the next hour. His bitten fingernails claw at nothing but fabric. Unless he can find a way to magically get high off of smoking lint, he’s out. He doesn’t even have the money to replenish his stock.

_Fuck._

The expletive comes hissing through his teeth like steam through a grate. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He is so fucked without a fix. It’s only a matter of time before he gets more visitors, worse than his sweet, little tentacle monster of a sibling.

A frazzled mother and her three bundled up babies shove past Klaus, sending him off the sidewalk. He goes spiraling into a magazine stand, and it’s only a matter of luck he doesn’t go bringing the racks of gossip fodder down in the process. He stumbles a step or two sideways, attempting to right himself but his head is spinning, spinning. He knocks shoulders with a large man attempting to pick up a morning paper, shudders an apology, and that’s when he sees it — sees _her._

Another ruby in the rough.

Luscious curls and sparkling eyes. She smiles like she has a secret to keep, and Klaus can confirm that she’s keeping more than one. She’s dressed in decadence, plum purple and ivy green. He doesn’t read the words floating around her on the cover, but he knows that it’s all good things. When it comes to Allison, it’s always good things.

He reaches for her, lets his fingers delicately dance across the magazine like a skater on ice. He wants to rip her free from the binding, take the page and keep it close to his chest, to his quickly beating heart. But he can’t. She’s worth too much — in every sense. He can’t afford to have some beat cop chasing after him for snagging something he can’t eat or smoke; right now, he can barely walk, for Christ’s sake.

The clerk is starting to give him dirty looks for rubbing his hands all over the merchandise. Klaus takes the hint and takes his leave.

*

There’s a shit hole diner on the wrong side of 4th and 6th, the kind of vintage eatery that hasn’t been able to afford any upgrades since the mid-fifties and decided to just roll with it. It’s gained the respect of every junkie, hobo, and whore in the neighbourhood because of its lack of a loitering policy. The owner’s got a big heart and enjoys company, tells everyone that they’re welcome to stay because they make the place look busy even when it’s not.

Klaus slumps into a booth near the back corner, lets the cracks in the vinyl itch him through his tattered shirt. He’s got his jacket thrown over his legs, keeping them weighted down so they don’t shake and shake. He gets himself a water and sips on it, crunches on the crushed cubes. He doesn’t use the straw, but he holds it like a cigarette between his fingers and pretends.

Just above a whisper, he goes, “Ben.”

No response.

A little louder, he goes, “Benny.”

Nothing.

At the risk of disturbing the people around him, he goes, _“Ben-”_

“Keep your voice down! Are you _trying_ to get committed? You know what people think when they see you talking to yourself, it’s not safe-”

Ah, there he is. Worrying like always. Klaus shoves the straw down into his drink and sucks some water up through it. He holds it in place, keeping his tongue across the entrance, and pulls the straw back out.

“-and I thought you said the next 48 hours would be a bummer-free zone, am I not ‘buzzkill Ben’ to you anymore?”

Klaus moves his tongue and blows into the straw. Water goes spraying across the opposite end of the booth, passing straight through the apparition of his brother, who levels him with a reprimanding glare.

“Still in public,” Ben finishes flatly.

“You love it,” Klaus challenges.

Ben sighs. He doesn’t even have working lungs anymore, but he sighs.

Klaus thinks it’s kind of nice, in a weird way, to have an effect on someone — proof of existence, or something — even if that effect isn’t necessarily positive and that someone is dead.

He dunks his straw back into the water. This time, he leaves it there. He asks, “What happened to us?”

“Us?”

“Yeah,” Klaus says. “One, two, three, five, seven. What happened to us?”

“Why not four and six?”

“Present and accounted for,” Klaus grumbles. “Don’t have to wonder about us. And besides, we stay in contact. We don’t count.”

Ben watches him like he doesn’t quite know how to respond. He looks down, then back up. He says, “Maybe _that’s_ what happened to us.”

“Hm?”

“Everyone counted themselves out,” Ben explains. “Nobody counted themselves in.”

Klaus laughs and the whole thing sends a shudder through his body, from his head to his shoulders, from his legs to his toes. Once he starts, he can’t seem to make himself stop. His teeth chatter with the force of the motion. “Yeah,” he says, giddy and nauseated at once. “Maybe so.”

Ben sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. He’s back to worrying — it’s possible he never stopped. He doesn’t say anything, but at least he doesn’t leave.

After a long stretch of silence, Klaus feels tears pricking in his eyes, threatening to tidal wave down his cheeks. His voice is thin, shaky like the rest of him, when he begs for Ben to stay.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ben assures him.

Klaus nods and, before he can do anything about it, he’s crying. He grabs a stack of napkins and blots at his face with them. The paper clings to him and comes away black from what’s left of the dark kohl he lines around his eyes.

People are turning to look at him now, staring at him over their stacks of pancakes and toast. He sinks in his seat, pulling his jacket over his shoulders, up to his chin.

*

Klaus has a difficult relationship with sleeping — it’s unnecessarily complicated, like every other relationship he’s had in life. He tries not to drift off until he’s well incapacitated, under the influence of more than one substance. He’s not putting himself under — goodness _no,_ of course not! He prefers to think of himself as being pleasantly sedated. But even that has yet to be proven as a faultless solution.

He makes it as far as the train station before he starts to crash. Out of his daily sustenance, running on ice water and adrenaline, he knew he would have to sleep eventually — as much as he didn’t want to.

He claims an ignored corner of the platform and makes it his, for the time being. Discarded newspapers are a good enough mattress. Shadows stretch in intricate patterns around the area, allowing him to disappear.

Trains slug through the station around the clock, and each time one pulls in, it briefly stirs Klaus from his restless slumber. His eyes flicker back and forth beneath the lids as he dreams of gaping wounds and agonizing sobs. Hands grab at him, hundreds upon thousands of disturbed phantoms seeking peace.

He seizes and bolts upward from his resting place, pushes himself back until he slams against the wall. His temples throb in time with the quickened pace of his heart, his breath fast and short and somehow scraping his own throat. They’re everywhere, still touching him, still screaming and begging and pleading in every imaginable language. There’s blood, charred flesh, missing limbs and eyes and heads. He can’t breathe. He can’t-

“Hey, hey- Klaus, you’re _okay._ Everything’s going to be okay.”

_Can’t breathe._

“Focus on me.”

_Can’t think._

“This is the worst of it, Klaus. The first day is always the worst.”

_Can’t speak._

“But you don’t have to be afraid. You’re not alone, I’m right here. Okay?”

_Can’t do this anymore-_

“So focus on me,” Ben repeats, insistent. “You can get through this.”

Klaus shakes his head furiously.

“You can. I know you can.”

Through wet eyes, the world is a kaleidoscope. Three identical sets of his brother kneel before him, his hand extended, and everything is blurring and swirling together. He blinks in a harsh, rapid-fire and everything comes back together as one. He wants to take Ben’s hand, but he can’t.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

*

Standing outside the building, he can hear the whining of instruments as they tune up. Someone forgot to completely shut the side entrance; he catches it before the latch can, squeezes through and steps into the black labyrinth of backstage. He drifts along, ignoring the way the small space makes him feel —

_Trapped, he’s trapped again, left alone in the darkness of a stone mausoleum. Everything is cold, closing in, closer, too close. He can’t feel where he begins and the spirits end._

Correction, he is _trying_ to ignore the way the small space makes him feel, and trying grants no guarantee of success. He pulls his jacket tighter around him, holding himself in a forgiving embrace.

He keeps walking, following the sound of strings. He breaches the beginning of the stage and draws to a stop. Wanting to watch but not wanting to be seen, he sidles back, joining discarded set pieces, sandbags, and racks of unused chairs and stands.

Klaus scans the warming orchestra until he finds her. Her hair is pulled back, entirely off her forehead. Her shirt is ironed and buttoned stiffly to her neck.

Vanya used to be a timorous thing of a girl. Even now, as a grown woman, there is an air of modesty about her — an uncertainty that their father instilled in every single one of his children — but she has changed drastically between then and now. Klaus recognizes her more from the picture in the back of her exposé than he does from childhood.

The conductor taps his baton against his stand and counts them off in a steady rhythm. The orchestra begins with a strong, collective sound — and even if Klaus listens close, he can’t pick her apart from the rest. No longer is she in the shadow of the Academy, doomed to never fit in. Here, she plays with an ensemble as one.

She keeps her violin pressed to her chin like a shield, playing with such sureness, such trust. Like it’s all she has left — and in many ways, Klaus thinks, it is.

*

Not far from the theatre, a funeral home huddles between a bakery and a flower shop. This part of town looks quaint, with its white paneled wood and red brick. People are selling paintings and handcrafted jewelry on the roadside. Musicians walk about with their cases in hand. Klaus feels completely removed from the glass spires of corporate and the sunken cement of the party scene.

“I don’t see why she got the raw end of the deal,” Klaus confesses to the empty space beside him. “I’m just as useless as her. My powers never did us any good on our _missions.”_ He says the word with disrespect, tossing up air quotes around it and everything.

“You’re not useless,” Ben replies.

Klaus goes on like Ben didn’t say anything. “Vanya and I could have made our _own_ league,” he bemoans. “The Underwhelming Academy.”

“You can use your powers to talk to me. And people _like_ me.”

Klaus scoffs. “Right,” he says. “Because that’s going _so well_ for me.”

“Maybe if you stayed sober, you would know more about how to use your powers,” Ben points out.

Klaus poots a raspberry at him. He says, “You wanna see how I can use my powers? Well, _fine._ I’ll _show_ you, but I can’t promise you’ll be happy about it.”

And then he swerves, taking a sharp turn toward the funeral home.

It’s a good thing he wears black all the time — when he joins the grieving crowd, shuffling his way into the mortuary, he looks like he fits right in.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks, simultaneously curious and horrified.

Loud enough for the mourners to hear, Klaus sighs and says, “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” What he means is, _it’s a shame telepathy isn’t included in my bogus set of bogus powers. Always making me talk out loud to spirits, what an unenjoyable form of torture._ But to everyone around him, he comes off as sympathetic — they sniffle and nod along with him. Yes, it is a shame.

An elderly woman looks up at Klaus with a frown. She’s got very pink lipstick on and her hair is a frazzled orange. She isn’t tall; she comes up to Klaus’ elbow in her pencil-thin heels. She asks, “How did you come to know Chester?”

Chester is currently staring at Klaus from across the room. He’s an older guy, but his injuries point to an accident more than natural causes.

Klaus stitches his brows together and lets his breath catch on the inhale. His voice sinks into the reedy warble of a man on the verge of breaking and he says, “It’s just too painful to talk about, really… I was just so shocked to hear about _the accident._ ”

The woman takes his hand and coos at him. She says, “I know, sweetheart, I know,” in that sad sort of way.

They waddle closer to the parlour doors, filing in after everybody else, and — _bingo._ With this kind of turnout, Klaus knew there would be more than enough refreshments to feed a midwest militia. He squeezes the woman’s fingers, resisting the urge to nab one of those jewel-encrusted rings from the knots of her knuckles, and peels himself away.

“You’re unbelievable,” Ben says.

Klaus loads a paper plate up with miniature sausages, wedge sandwiches, fruits and veggies, and every kind of cookie provided. He pumps a cup full of lemonade and says, “I’m touched, Ben. Absolutely flattered. Hey, just wondering, but is unbelievable a step _up_ or a step _down_ from being useless?”

Ben is evidently agitated — there’s disapproval in the stern line of his jaw that makes Klaus feel oddly proud of himself. Through gritted teeth, he replies, “It’s a category of its own.”

*

Sweat turns his curls into clumps. He takes off his jacket, resigned to holding it in his arms because it’s just disgustingly uncomfortable to wear, what with all of the — _eugh,_ fluid. He’s finally hit feverish, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You could put yourself into rehab,” Ben suggests, logical as always. “Or you could go home.”

“With what money?” Klaus asks. The words come sluggish from his mouth. His tongue feels like molasses against his too-soft teeth. “And what _willpower?_ Ugh, moving… too much effort.”

“What else are you going to do? Stay in this gas station bathroom for the rest of your life?”

“I might,” Klaus says. “Let’s hope I don’t have much time left.”

“Don’t,” Ben replies sternly. “Don’t joke like that. You’re lucky to be alive. You shouldn’t be-”

Klaus retches and sticks his face in the toilet bowl. His stomach tightens up, tighter than a boxer’s fist. He pukes until there’s nothing left.

*

By the time Klaus is able to walk again, sunrise is already descending upon the streets in large swaths of clementine and pomegranate. Hazy tendrils of mist wrap around the lamp posts. The light reflecting off the surrounding precipitation gives everything a fairy-like glow.

“Another day goes by,” he croons, knowing Ben must feel like it’s another day wasted.

Part of him wonders if Ben chooses to stick around Klaus, or if he’s stuck with him. The latter must be the case — right? It has to be. If Ben had the option to follow… literally anybody else, why on this unearthly earth would he choose to hang around a lousy addict like his deadbeat brother?

He takes his time, operating purely on autopilot to the seediest district of the city. One foot in front of the other, he walks the familiar route like a tightrope. There are plenty of sequin sparkling dresses to ogle in the windows of thrift shops, an abundance of restaurants with fish tanks propped outside their front doors, and a series of tattoo parlours that leave the skin around his wrist itching in an unsavoury remembrance.

Nighttime slips through the spaces between the silver-dusted clouds. Neon signage switches to a promiscuous carmine the farther he walks.

With every step, he feels closer to regaining control — or losing it, whatever. He lengthens his strides, antsy to get this part over with so he can hurry up and get what he wants, what he _needs,_ what he _craves_ with every piece of his jumbled, jigsaw self.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ben says, stressed. He isn’t so solid anymore — Klaus can see the textures of their surroundings streaming through him.

“It won’t take long,” Klaus replies, like that makes it any better.

But when he steps around the corner, he’s shocked by the sight of what he’s walked into, so much so that he staggers backward and loses his footing. He goes sprawling into the gutter. Pain shoots through his spine from the impact. _Yeowch, that’s gonna leave a bruise._

There, dressed in full-body leather and exchanging blows with some curbside gangbanger, is his brother. His _other_ brother.

Dazed, Klaus just sits there and watches the fight unfold. It’s a lot to take in, seeing Diego like this. He almost considers it to be some sort of mistake — this _can’t_ be the scrawny, stammering teenager Klaus used to share walls with. He’s filled out nicely over the years, more toned and muscular than Klaus ever thought he could be. And he looks ridiculous, sporting his mask after all this time, trying so hard to be everything the rest of them failed to uphold.

But, Klaus admits, he looks no more ridiculous than he did as a child. Fashioning his bedsheets into a cape and running around the house. Nicking notches into the table at breakfast. Trying to climb the big tree in the backyard and caterwauling when he got too scared to go back down.

All those times Klaus caught him crying in their mother’s arms.

Diego rams his elbow into the miscreant’s solar plexus, yet Klaus is the one who’s winded. His monochrome memories are now a vivid wash of technicolour. Everything he desperately wanted to forget fills the gaps between the horrors he could never completely erase. Faded scars to fresh bruises, there are a thousand ghosts around him — and this time, they aren’t of the dead.

He scrambles to a stand and throws himself aside, crouching behind the nearest obstacle to keep himself out of sight. He can hear Diego spouting stupid clichés, things like, “Not so tough now, are you, big guy?” and “Where you running off to?” It makes Klaus cringe for more reasons than the obvious.

And then, suddenly, he’s not alone. A woman’s voice booms from the opposite end of the alleyway, authoritative and firm. She talks to Diego like she knows him well.

“Drop him, Diego.”

There’s a wet _whump_ as a body connects with the ground, followed by the sound of Diego brushing his gloved hands clean. “Was only trying to help,” he says.

Silence saturates the corridor. Then, “Back up and face the wall. _Now.”_

Heavy boots shuffle and stop.

_Click. Click._

Two sets of cuffs.

“Obstruction of justice,” the woman says, lingering on each consonant with flirtatious intent, “is a serious crime. You know I could charge you for this.”

Diego laughs through his nose. With fondness filtering through his words, he says, “Good thing I know you won’t.”

“Move,” she barks.

Louder than a gunshot, asphalt crunches beneath their feet as they approach. Klaus tenses up and throws his hands over his eyes, like that might keep him from being seen. He peeks through his fingers, watching them fearfully, but they pass him by.

The woman has one hand on Diego’s back, prodding him forward, and she’s using the other to haul the unconscious ruffian along with them. She wears her badge with confidence, daring those around her to misbehave — and there’s this lovesick look on Diego’s face that Klaus almost wishes he had never seen.

They cross the barren street, to a deftly parked police car beside the barred windows of a closed pawn shop. She shoves the hoodlum inside the backseat, but not Diego. No, she shuts the door so she can press Diego flat against it. Her hands smooth up and down his chest.

Klaus shifts in distress. He wants to run, to escape while he can still go unnoticed. But he doesn’t. He stays exactly where he is.

This part of the neighbourhood is so quiet, even their hushed dialogue is loud enough for Klaus to hear. He hangs onto every word —

“Am I going to have to confiscate every knife that’s on you, Diego? Are you going to make me do that to you again?”

“Go right ahead, I’ve got plenty more at home.”

“Don’t give me probable cause.”

“Like you’re not waiting for an excuse to get back into my bedroom.”

— and he wonders what that boiling sensation is, deep beneath the skin. He’s distracted by the long lines of the detective’s legs, the softness of her profile, the sensuous curve of her back. He despises himself with a suddenness so sharp, it scorches him from within.

Does he want to _be_ her, or be _like_ her?

She leans up, bringing her mouth to Diego’s with purpose. Klaus watches his brother melt into her touch, fixates on the way his arms twitch and strain against the cuffs like he wants to hold her. He stands up too fast and slams his head against the side of the dumpster. The sound of the collision makes Diego and the detective spring apart. Klaus hesitates — _why the hell did he hesitate?_

“Hey!” Diego calls out, deep and aggressive like a watchdog on alert.

Klaus takes off down the block, ignoring the whole body ache that threatens to upend him onto the cement. Diego flinches like he wants to chase after him, but the detective shoves him back into place.

Distantly, Klaus hears her ask, “Are you okay?”

But he doesn’t hear Diego’s response.

*

It’s a long walk to the mansion. He hates the way he remembers how to get there, like it’s ingrained deep within the coding of his DNA.

He spent so many hours pressed against the cold window in his bedroom, dreaming of escaping, of leaving it all behind and never looking back. Returning now feels like the worst kind of defeat; not only does he have nowhere else to go, but he doesn’t even care anymore. Those dreams of his don’t matter. He’s escaped, he’s left it all behind, he’s tried never looking back. The world outside is a scary, shitty place and the Hargreeves household is no scarier, no shittier. It just _is._

He breezes through the security systems, recognized by all the scanners. Stripped from everything, he is still, at his core, a number. The product of some sick experiment. A cog in the machine that is the Academy. He stares into the security camera huddled against the corner of the building and wonders, _Are you watching, Dad? Are you proud?_

He hasn’t been inside for a decade at least, but nothing has changed. Taxidermied animals lurk around every corner. Family portraits line the walls, fixed in place like the masks on their time-capsule faces. Decor, furniture, everything exactly as he left it. As _they_ left it, he internally corrects. Even Luther is gone now, the last to take flight from the nest, although Klaus has a sneaking suspicion he got pushed more than took off.

Again, Klaus mentally consults his father. _Are you proud?_ Only this time, he isn’t seeking approval; it’s a taunting little voice in the back of his head that sneaks the words out quick like the flick of a snake’s tongue. _Are you proud of driving every single last one of us away?_

He sneaks past the sealed doors of the study, wonders if he listens close enough he’ll be able to hear the shuffle of paper, the scritching of a pen. He walks a bit more recklessly through the rest of the house, pulling at his clothes the closer he gets to the bathroom.

The claw foot tub is in impeccable condition, glittering like a pearl in the heavy lunar light. Water gushes from its spout in a rush, curls of steam winding to the ceiling in its wake. Klaus perches himself delicately on the lustrous lip and waits for the bottom to fill. His knees knock together as he shakes with anticipation. He folds into himself and the bumps of his spine push up against the skin of his back, raised and visible in his slight frame; his body keeps no secrets.

Once the water has gathered in the tub about a third of the way, Klaus drops himself down into it. He splashes around some, scraping away that initial grime that’s gathered on his skin. The water’s edge rises, and rises, and then rises some more, slowly overtaking his Pollock painted body — he is nothing but abstract lines. He shuts off the water eventually, when it threatens to spill over, and he settles down, his chin sinking below the water line.

Through the clouded glass of the bathroom window, he can see the night sky in a mosaic. There’s a bright spot, far away and up above, that Klaus knows is the moon.

First place gets gold, gold like the golden blonde of Luther’s perfectly groomed locks. Second get silver, silver like the glint of Diego’s sharpened knives. Third gets bronze, bronze like the beautiful tone of Allison’s always-soft skin.

 _Fourth gets nothing,_ Klaus thinks.

And then, to the moon, he asks, _Are_ you _proud?_

*

Oil on canvas, waxy in the waning light of the common area. No matter where Klaus goes, the eyes follow. Forever a number, forever a child — Five has been lost to time in more ways than one.

Klaus stops before the portrait, steeples his hands together and presses the point of his chin to the joined indexes. Quietly, he says, “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

He isn’t expecting a reply, of course he isn’t, he’s talking to a damn _painting_ — but he gets one.

“Yes, Master Klaus, it most certainly has.”

And the shock of it scares him so bad, he trips over the ornate rug and lands hard against the couch. He pushes himself as far back into the furniture as he can, slamming into the armrest and letting the cushions swallow him up.

There, in the gaping mouth of the archway, stands Pogo. His grey face has weathered with the years, a cemetery statue beaten down by the rain. He hobbles forward and settles down on the loveseat opposite from Klaus.

“My apologies,” he says. “My intention was not to startle you.”

Klaus scrunches up his nose in a sniffle. Before he can stop himself, he asks, “Does anyone else ever…” but he can’t seem to finish the question once he’s begun.

“You are not our only visitor,” Pogo divulges. “Although it has been quieter, now that Master Luther has been… assigned to a mission elsewhere.”

Another unfinished question: “Who else has…?”

“Your brother comes by occasionally, if only to walk the perimeter. I believe he is checking on your mother, in his own way. He has yet to brave the inside, however. I do believe you are alone in that matter.”

Pogo doesn’t even need to distinguish which brother he’s referring to, Klaus knows exactly who he means — and he hates the electric prickling that surges through him at the reminder that Diego is closeby, that they could potentially cross paths again.

Klaus forces his attention back to the painting above the mantle. He waggles a finger at the ever-frozen Five. “Bet you haven’t seen him any.”

“That would be correct.”

Giving Pogo a sidelong look, he asks, “Do you miss him?”

“Don’t we all?”

 _No,_ Klaus wants to say. _I don’t._

He’s gone searching for his brother before, in times similar to now. Those rare bouts between booze and pills where he feels everything too much. Every time, without fail, he has returned perplexed — should he be comforted by the lack of results, or terrified?

He isn’t sure what the limitations are on Five’s abilities, doesn’t know if he really believes Five is in the future or the past or if he just got fed up with it all, blipped himself farther and farther away and never came back. But no matter what, or where, or — hell, no matter _when_ Five went, he’s still alive. Klaus knows that much to be true.

 _Lucky bastard,_ he thinks.

Pogo clears his throat, rousing Klaus from his daze. He says, “Should you ever need us... you are always welcome here.”

Klaus wishes he wasn’t.

*

Without intending to, Klaus drifts off on the couch for about an hour — or, at least, until the cotton soft light of the rising morning stretches thin into the room and wakes him. He hears the floorboard squeak from somewhere above him and bolts before he has the chance to see who it is.

Flamingo pink and steeping tea orange splash across the sky in wide gashes. Dawn ignites dull metal, and within seconds, the oversized statue of Ben is dripping in sunrise. And there, invisible to everyone else, is Ben - the _real_ Ben, if he could be called that — sitting at the statue’s feet. The same light that reflects off the monument filters straight through him.

From his roost, Ben remarks, “You’re running away again?”

Klaus stops where he stands. He turns and fixes Ben with a stubborn glare, a childish thing of a gesture. “For the life of me, and for the death of you, I can’t seem to figure out what about this situation gives you the right to chew on me anymore. I did what you wanted, I went back.”

Ben gets down from the statue with no attempt at humanity; there is no scooting to the edge and hopping down, no looking where he will land. He’s just there one second and then in front of Klaus the next. He inspects Klaus carefully, and when Klaus catches on to what he’s doing, he turns it into a big show — he spreads his arms and does a spin, ends it with a bow no matter how close he is to toppling over. Ben reaches out, as if to steady him, but he phases straight through.

“Like what you see?” Klaus asks, almost drunkenly in his sleep deprivation. “Should we go somewh-”

“You’re clean.” Ben says it like he’s surprised, like he hasn’t been watching Klaus this whole time, like maybe, somehow, in the blink of an eye, Klaus had the time to shoot himself up.

“In more ways than one,” Klaus says, gesturing down at his freshly washed self.

Exasperated yet fond, Ben shakes his head. “Congratulations on accomplishing the bare minimum for hygiene,” he says.

Klaus doesn’t miss a beat. “Why, _thank_ you,” he replies.

“It’s not really an achievement…”

“Well, I do my best.”

Ben clicks his tongue against his teeth in a _tsk._ “You really do, don’t you?”

They lapse into something Klaus hesitates to label silence — there’s too much buzzing between them, around them, for quiet to truly come. Klaus slouches away from the shadow of the statue that’s been brought on by the sun in its slow ascension. He juts his chin, beckoning for Ben to follow him, and Ben does.

*

From up here, the city looks small. Klaus is reminded of quaint dollhouses and those tiny towns that happy families and super malls put on display around Christmas time. Plastic buildings, plastic cars, plastic people — nothing real about it.

Right on time, the business executives come marching up the subway station stairs, their suits like silent films — everything’s in black and white. Klaus feels the urge to spit down at them, just to see where it lands, but the look of pinched concern on Ben’s face stops him.

They’re completely alone on the empty roof of an old parking garage, dangling over the edge to be precise, and Klaus knows Ben is afraid of something that he will never voice — so Klaus voices it for him.

“I’m not going to jump.”

“Okay,” Ben says, so fast that he gives himself away - jumping is _exactly_ what he’s thinking about, and he isn’t sure if he believes Klaus when he says he won’t do it.

Klaus doesn’t dwell on his brother’s disbelief. Instead, he asks, “Why do you even bother?”

“With?”

“Me,” Klaus says. “Why do you keep trying? I know it pisses you off when I act the way I do. You could go anywhere, you don’t even have to stay on this plane if you don’t want to.”

Ben turns his face to the horizon. Klaus can see clouds peppering through his profile. The wind blows around them, and Ben’s everything stays fixed exactly in place. He answers Klaus with another question: “Why are you always running from your powers?”

Klaus wants to laugh — so he does. Ben looks at him with taken offense scrubbed across his features.

“Oh, come off it,” Klaus says, moving like he’s going to shove Ben’s shoulder. Ben, bless him, plays along and acts like he’s been properly shoved. “I’m not running from my powers.”

“Really,” Ben says flatly.

Klaus irons down his smile. “Really,” he echoes.

“Are you going to tell me-”

Klaus doesn’t let him finish. He says, “It’s the living as much as the dead. My past, future, present. You. Dad. Our siblings. _Me._ Just, all of it. I’m running from all of it.”

For a brief moment, he thinks that it’s raining, that a sunshower has joined their morning — but then he realizes that it’s not rain sticking to his lashes. He’s crying again. Did he ever stop? He feels like he’s done nothing but cry, and cry, and cry. He digs his trembling fingers into the leaking corners of his eyes, claws at his own skin like he did in the tub.

“I love you, Klaus.”

Klaus shakes his head. He wants to scream, but all that comes from his chest is a broken whimper, a bird with its wings caught in the cage. He thinks he feels the flat of someone’s palm against his back, rubbing the tension from his shoulders in a soothing circle.

He takes a breath, the words _I love you, too_ poised on the tip of his tongue like the beaded drip at the end of a needle. But when he lifts his head, no one is there beside him.

Ben is gone, and Klaus is all alone.


End file.
